hamber-window, as her gaze
followed the little messengers of spring, who vanished so briskly into
the wooden boxes, a large number of which had been placed for them on
the trees and buildings. It was no sunny spring day there without; the
clouds hung low and gray over the earth, and a warm, sultry wind tossed
about the budding branches unmercifully, as if to shake them into
complete awakening.

The old lady did not like the overcast sky at all, it put her out of
humor. She could not wander about far out of doors, to be sure, but she
would fain have seen the little spot of earth that lay stretched out
before her window looking cheerful, and blue sky and sunshine lighting
up the fresh green of the meadows, and the oaks in foliage.

"It ought to be always May or September here in the Mark," she used to
say; "then it would be the loveliest country in the world. In winter one
does best to draw the curtains, so as not to cast a single look out of
doors, it looks so melancholy outside, brown upon brown, with a shade of
dirty gray."

And so she turned from the window and its dull outlook, and limped
quickly through the room, here and there arranging or straightening
something. That was such a habit of hers. Now the candelabra on the
spinet were moved a little, and now the delicate, withered hands picked
a yellow leaf from a plant on the flower-stand, or gave an improving
touch to the canopied bed which so pretentiously occupied an entire side
of the room. Aunt Rosamond called that her throne; one had to climb up a
pair of carpeted steps to reach it, and with its crimson silk hangings,
somewhat faded indeed, and gilded knobs, it really gave you the
impression of one. Then here and there she pushed back a coverlet or
straightened a picture which tipped a little to one side. The latter she
did most frequently, for the high walls were almost covered with
pictures, a collection of portraits, mostly in oil or pastel. Aunt
Rosamond knew a history about each one of the faces that looked so
quietly from the frames in her room; she had known them all, these men
and women there above, and strangely enough it sounded to hear her, as
she stood before some picture, tell its story in a few words.

She had just limped to a card-table, over which was hung an oval pastel
portrait of a man with curled and powdered hair and a blue silk coat.
She gave the portrait a gentle push toward the right, but whether it was
the cord or the nail that had